The Years
by yllimilly
Summary: Serenity and her father shared too little, and what little they shared, they couldn't talk about. He never was a father to her, can he become a grandfather? Subtext.
1. Possession

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"Elaine?"

He cleared his throat and ruffled his hair into place, as if his ex-wife could see him through the receiver.

"No, dad. It's me. Serenity."

"Huh. Oh." He immediately let go of his beer can, then went for the mute button on the remote control. "Serenity." He made his voice friendlier, as if approaching a small animal. "How's my little girl doing?" He wondered how she looked like. If she was born in 1991, then that would make her 19? Or 20 years old?

"I'm fine, dad."

Her sentence fell flat. There was this awkward silence during which both were waiting for the other to speak. What could they talk about? The years spent together? Or the years spent without each other? He wondered what her life was like, and strained his ear in hopes that the background noise could tell him, since she might not want to do so herself. But he found plain, utter silence. Not even the soft whoosh of her breathing.

"I got a baby shower Wednesday night. It's a barbecue." Still that unnaturally even, strained voice.

Unsure of what to say, he let his eyes drift to the TV set, fazed out, and realized violently that he was going to be a grand-father. His tongue felt thick and pasty in his mouth. Then, like the heart in his chest, he decided to take a bold leap: "Serenity, about... I don't... I didn't know what I was doing. I wasn't all there."

On the screen, a car commercial.

On the line, that cryptical, controlled silence.

"It's at Connie's place. Mom's gonna be leaving at 5. You can come after that."

He heard her exhaling sharply into the receiver immediately before the line cut off.

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	2. Generation

Written for the LJ comm ygodrabble. Prompt: Generation. Yes, this is the continuation from chapter one.

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"It was on special. A steal. You wouldn't believe it." The woman drags a puff from her cigarette, slows down the rhythm of her rocking chair, taps the embers in the paper plate. She plays with the filter, smiling in anticipation. "Go ahead! Open it!"

Serenity sits up, readjusts her support belt into place. She stares at the half open box, indecisive, then turns to her mother. "Are you sure? I mean can't I wait 'till Wednesday?"

Another smoke intake, and the woman impatiently motions with her free hand for her daughter to just 'open the damn thing, I don't have all day'.

Serenity's shoulders sag. The box still smells like the store. She lifts one flap open carefully. The store won't take it back if the box is damaged. Her mother raises her eyebrows excitedly. A hundred creases on her forehead.

Serenity knows it's a tricycle; it says so on the box. No surprise here.

She sits up, tugs her support belt back into place. "It wasn't in the registry, Mom," she says softly. "Wasn't there anything you liked in the registry?" A rhetorical question.

When that chair rocks hard, its joints make a sort of muted squeaky noise.

"I don't know how these things work," Elaine shrugs defensively. "Why does everything have to be so complicated?"

The twenty year old sighs.

The woman's smile falters.

"I just don't know where I'll put it, Mom."

"I'll keep it in the basement until you need it."

Serenity withholds a comment on what happened to some of the other things she left in storage in her mother's basement. She forces a smile, digs into the box, catches a glimpse of the gift. A bright orange metal bar - a handle - occulted by the remaining cardboard flaps and the white bits of wrapping foam. Some have found their way to the floor, loosely scattered around the future mother's feet.

The burning filter dies in a gritty sound, crushed against the drizzled paper plate.

"It's nice," Serenity murmurs as a peace offering.

"You didn't take it out! You didn't even look at it!" The woman's hands shoot up in the air in exasperation.

"It's going straight to the basement anyway. I just don't want to ruin the box is all."

When she sees her mother stretching her lips into a thin line and looking away out the window, the daughter knows the matter is settled and starts shutting the upper flaps back into place.

"Mom..."

Still looking out the window, despite the lack of a view.

"Mom, I'm sorry. I didn't mean to make you upset."

"Then you shouldn't have asked Connie."

"Her place is bigger," she retorted... gently. "And you won't be there half the time."

Serenity rubs the sensitive skin above her eyelids. They're greasy from fatigue. "It'll be less trouble for you, Mom. You won't have to clean up or anything." She hopes that'll satisfy her. She doesn't want to go through all this again - that it had to be on Wednesday because most of her friends had plans for the weekend, and because Connie's backyard is greener and prettier and not cluttered with metal scraps that don't fit inside the shed.

"Plus you said the barbecue didn't work."

"Robert could have fixed it."

When that chair rocks hard, its joints make a squeaky noise.

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End file.
